Things You Said
by daisiesinajar
Summary: A short multi-chapter based on a series of prompts from tumblr. Huntingbird.
1. things you said too quietly

**1\. things you said too quietly**

' _I'VE HAD ENOUGH'_ is the first thing she hears after three months of no contact. Her stomach flutters in reaction to his voice, but her heart clenches at his words. She had missed him, missed him so much these past few months, but being deep cover didn't allow for outside contact- she barely knew who her handler was. And the mercenaries she was in with were brutal, heartless- she had seen little children carelessly murdered, their delicate throats slit- for a week after that she had cried in the shower (not in bed because they kept a hidden camera in her room- they really had to hide their cameras better- and they wouldn't hesitate to kill her too if she showed any sign of weakness), praying that she wouldn't have another nightmare where it was Lance's broken neck she was discovering.

Her hands still on her duffel, clothes shoved in anyhow, and she bites her lip to keep from making a sound. So, he saw the note then. She hears him come up behind her, his hand gripping her arm to spin her around brusquely. She winces before she can stop herself; his hands overlay half-healed bruises left by the last brute she had taken down. He drops his hand, eyes darting to her arm, but he doesn't comfort her, not this time, and a knot forms itself in her stomach.

His eyes come up to her face, and _oh_ , it's the first time she's seen him in months; she maps his face quickly, running over familiar planes- his lips, his nose, his eyes. His eyes. They soften a fraction when she meets his glare, enough to tell her that he's hurting, that he misses her, that he wishes things didn't have to be this way, and before she can stop herself, her hand jerks up to cup his face, to pull him close, but his name dies on her lips when he flinches back. His jaw clenches and his eyes fill with hurt and anger and frustration. The knot in her gut tightens- yes, that look was familiar too.

"Not again, Bob," he says, and it's both a plea and a warning and she's reminded of what Izzy had said to her once, that he wouldn't wait forever. She bites her lip, fists the material of her shirt to stop herself from reaching for him again. "I haven't seen you in months, and you were going to leave me a damned _note_ and take off again? A _note_ Bob? Is that all I am to you-that's all you can spare? A bloody _note?"_ He hurls the scrunched up paper onto the bed. "You couldn't even tell me to my face!"

"Hunter, I-"

He shrugs off her arm. "No, Bob, don't. I haven't seen you in three months," his eyes bore into hers, "Haven't heard a word from you, or about you, and no one will tell me a _damned_ thing- I went to bed every night wondering if I'd wake up to someone at the door telling me you _died!_ Do you know what it's like, not knowing if the person you love- Ah, fuck." He looks away from her, rubbing a hand over his face. "I haven't seen you in months, Bob," he growls, backing her against the closet, "and you're going to leave again." He barks a harsh laugh, pressed flush against her. "You need to decide what you want," he says, pain and anger lacing his words. But his grip on her arms is unexpectedly gentle, a strange contrast to his tone; his thumbs rub circles in her skin, and she sags against him, arms coming up to wrap around his waist.

He stills. And then his face is buried in the crook of her neck and his hands are hot against her back, roaming, feeling, their familiar ritual of checking each other for injuries, only he wants to hold her close, to make sure for himself that she isn't a hallucination, isn't a figment of his imagination, isn't another damned _dream_ ; she muffles a sob against his shoulder, clutching his shirt and trying to get closer to him- he cups her head and fists her hair and tugs her up for a bruising kiss, mouth hot and wet and familiar, and _oh god she missed this,_ and he pulls them to stumble backward onto the bed, upending the duffel into a mess of cloth on the floor.

He pulls off her shirt and bra in one swift movement, helps her with his belt buckle and kicks off his jeans because her hands are shaking too much. He presses her into the mattress, pinning her down beneath his hips and twined fingers, kissing her deeply, desperately, before pressing frantic kisses along her jaw, sucking and licking his way down her neck. His mouth clamps around her breast and she cries out, back arching off the bed, and when his tongue swirls, her mind goes completely, blissfully blank. She hardly recognises the throaty voice that calls out his name as she claws down his back, tossing his shirt aside, and he grunts in response, hand trailing down to enter her with one finger and then two. The moan that escapes her surprises him enough to lift his head from her breast, and he chuckles as she jerks her hips at an angle, one leg coming up to hook around his waist, trying to get more of him. He presses his lips to hers, sucking and teasing and twining their tongues, while he pumps his fingers into her quickly. "Lance," she pants, "Now."

He grunts and makes to clamber off her to get a condom, grinning at her mewl when he pulls his fingers out. "No," she gasps, " _Now_." She claws at his back, pulling him atop her, and Lance acquiesces with a quick thrust. His moan vibrates against her chest at the contact; she bites into his shoulder in equal parts pain and pleasure as she stretches to accommodate him. He sinks in slowly the rest of the way to give her time to stretch, swallowing her moans greedily. He pushes into her once, twice, and he's surprised when her breaths comes in erratic pants. "Already?" he grins, sweat beading on his forehead, and she just digs her nails into his hips and pulls him closer as she jerks hers upward- and then she's falling over the edge, back arched off the bed, his hands hugging her body close as she clenches uncontrollably around him and feels him follow after her.

He's still slumped on top of her when she manages to catch her breath enough to reply. "It's been a while, so sue me," she says, glaring, but her smile gives her away and he pushes himself up enough to kiss the corner of her upturned mouth. "And whose fault is that?" he teases. Those few words bring them crashing back to reality, and he freezes, eyes filling with regret and apology as he eases off her. Her heart sinks, a lead weight in her stomach, and she reaches out to hold him back. "Lance…"

For the first time, he notices the bruises all along her arm. With growing trepidation, he tugs down the blankets that she used to cover her body. "Bob," he breathes, horrified, turning his gaze from the purples and blacks that patchwork her body from shoulder to breasts to abdomen up to look at her. "Did I do this?" She laughs a small laugh that somehow sounds like a sob and shakes her head no, eyes inexplicably filling with tears, thinking back to the long nights she had hugged herself to sleep, always on alert, and missing him, always missing him. She folds her arms across her chest as if to protect herself, feeling exposed and vulnerable beneath his gaze.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, heart aching, and folds her into his arms. He holds her for a moment, then moves her hands away and shifts to sit facing her. He takes her hand and examines it carefully, pressing gentle kisses on each bruised knuckle and each fingertip, up her wrist, her arm, her shoulder. By the time he reaches her clavicle, she's breathing heavily, hands holding his head to her chest as he takes the soft flesh into his mouth. He suckles the side of her breast, nipping gently, and she gasps, a moan caught in the base of her throat. He looks up at her and grins, pupils large and dark. This second time around, he feathers kisses over her body, making sure to kiss every bruise, and adding a few of his own in the process.

-o-

He presses a kiss to her temple, nose buried in her hair, arms wrapped tightly around her bare shoulders. _I missed you,_ he almost says, when the buzz of a phone has her tensing and leaping out of bed before he can even register its origin. Suddenly he remembers how she'd originally intended to leave, and his heart feels like a cold weight in his chest. "I have to go," she says, and he watches as she pulls on her clothes frantically and dumps more into the duffel at the foot of the bed. Her eyes search the room in a panic looking for her phone, meeting his gaze instead. Her arms fall to her side, still clutching the bag. "Lance, I…"

"Were you really going to write me a note and leave again?" he asks quietly. She bites her lip and looks away, blinking hard and willing tears away. "I wasn't sure when you'd be back. I didn't- I don't have time." Her hands tighten on the duffel like a lifeline, and she moves to sit beside him, taking his hand, willing him to understand. "Lance, please..."

He looks down at their hands and back up at her, shaking his head slightly. "SHIELD isn't a life Bob, it's just a job," he says earnestly. "Can't you see that?" She runs a thumb across his knuckles before replying, "It's more than that to me Hunter. They need me-"

His heart clenches at the use of his last name, and he knows he's almost lost this fight. "Bob. Please. I love you-" Her eyes fly up to meet his at those three little words. "- I can't live wondering one day to the next if I'm ever going to see you again." He tightens his grip on her fingers. "I can't lose you Bob," he says softly, but her attention is caught by the insistent buzzing of her phone on the dresser, and she pulls away for it. "I have to go." She doesn't trust herself to hug him, knowing she might not be able to let go, so she settles for a quick kiss, relishing and memorising the feel of his lips on hers.

His throat is tight and stomach leaden as she gets up to leave. "Don't you love me?" he cries, grabbing her wrist, a desperate last-ditch attempt to guilt her into staying, and he feels utterly pathetic and guilty for blackmailing her this way even as the words leave his mouth. He doesn't think it'll work, but she turns, drops her bag, and pulls him into a hug, her arms twined around him, lips pressed into his shoulder. He clings to her tightly, but after a long moment, she pulls away to face him, eyes heavy with unshed tears. Her hand reaches up to cup his face, thumbing the rough stubble. "I love you," she says thickly, a tear tracing a lonely path down her cheek. Her lip trembles no matter how hard she bites down, but she holds his gaze resolutely, "Fiercely, I love you."

His lips part in a plea for her to stay, but she shakes her head, more tears escaping. "They need me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she repeats, pulling out of his grasp.

"I need you too," he whispers, but she's long gone.

* * *

 **A/n:**

Based on the tumblr prompt: things you said too quietly.

I've been posting my shorts as chapters on the Huntingbird: An A to Z of Snapshot Moments fic, but as I intend to for the next few prompts to be filled in chronological order, and since the chapters on the Snapshots fic aren't, I'm posting them as a new fic here instead.

Stay tuned! :)

Easter eggs in this chapter (in case you missed them):  
"SHIELD isn't a life, it's just a job." -Hunter to Skye, 2x02.  
Those three little words. -Bobbi reminiscing when talking to Simmons, 2x09.  
"I love you. Fiercely, I love you." -Adrianne Palicki's character Sam, in About A Boy, 2x02.

(Fair warning: if you go and watch the eps of About A Boy, prepare tissues- I just watched 5 seconds to check the episode and wanted to cry. So.)


	2. things you said too loudly

**2\. things you said too loudly**

She presses a hand to her abdomen, the other hand pinching a thin white stick. Her hand trembles as she squints in the tiny window, then methodologically sets it down and picks up the box to read the instructions and symbols on the back again. The part of her that has been trained to think under duress matches the symbols on the box with those on the stick, and she nods to herself as she triple checks the other two tests and their boxes.

Positive.

She rests the stick on the sink and brings her hand up to her mouth, taking a deep, shuddering breath through her fingers as the implications start trickling down into her consciousness. Her pulse picks up until it's drumming against her ribs like a hummingbird, hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to move back and forth gently on bare skin. A _baby_.

They had wanted this, the both of them. The moment she had casually let slip that _maybe_ she wasn't _completely_ opposed to having a baby a couple of months ago, Lance had gone into full-fledged daddy mode, reading all sorts of inane articles on how to get pregnant, nagging her to start folic acid 'because you should start _before_ you're actually pregnant Bob', and spending nights with his head in her lap throwing out baby names and vehemently arguing against 'Luke' and 'Leia'. He had been so disappointed that first month they realised she wasn't pregnant. But now…

It takes her a moment to realise she's grinning widely beneath her hand, and she brushes away tears as she stands and faces the large mirror in the hotel bathroom, lifting her shirt and pressing both palms flat on her belly. "Hello baby," she coos, blinking back tears. Laughter bubbles in her chest. "Your daddy is going to be so happy to hear about you."

It takes longer than she'd like since she can't seem to move without throwing up, but eventually she manages to unstitch the bottom of her ratty duffel where the bottom is padded thick. She probes with nimble fingers until she feels something hard, and fishes out the old burner phone from where it's nestled safely in the padding. It takes two more trips to the bathroom before she actually turns it on, and she frowns as she taps her stomach with a finger. "Don't make Mummy throw up again, baby," she warns. Unbidden, the thought of Lance doing the same pops up in her mind, and she can't help but smile.

She twirls the phone between her fingers idly, waiting for it to load, and perches on the edge of the untouched bed, her mind wandering. It settles on Lance, as always, and she sighs– they'd had a huge argument before she'd left for this mission, and while he'd left a text asking her not to die out there, she hadn't gotten any drunken voice messages alternating between rage and proclamations of love– very unlike him. Either he was upset and sulking over the fact that she'd left again almost immediately after months in her previous undercover op, or he'd finally started to pay attention when she said ' _complete radio silence'._ She feels a twinge of worry and sadness; it was probably the former, she convinces herself– Lance had never been one for instructions. She glances toward the bathroom where the three sticks sit on the counter and bites her lip; _this isn't how she'd have chosen to tell him._

It's not the best timing, she thinks, as the screen flickers to life. She's on a mission, it's supposed to be deep cover and she's only just started forming connections– but there's no way she'll continue the assignment and risk her baby now, and Lance would have a conniption fit if she did, anyway.

She drums her fingers on the bed impatiently and wonders if there's even a point to turning her phone on at all– she wants to tell him in person, wants to see his face light up and eyes widen. He'll probably ask if it's some sort of belated April Fools' joke, she thinks fondly. She's not usually one to let her imagination run away with her– that was all Lance– but this time, she thinks that maybe she won't be far off the mark.

Her sigh of relief at the screen loading changes to one of dismay when she realises that the battery is almost flat. Her fingers fly over the faded buttons and she hits 'send' before thinking it through, anxious to reach him before the battery dies completely. It's only moments later that she realises what she's done, and she mentally berates herself for her impulsiveness. "At least your daddy will have some time to get over his shock and prepare his list of cynical questions," she smiles, brushing her fingers over her middle. She flops onto her back, intending a nap, but regrets the action immediately when her stomach churns. She stumbles into the bathroom gagging, kneeling over the bowl with her hair gathered to the side, and finally shifts to sit cross legged on the cold tiles. _I wish you were here_.

It takes a while for her stomach to calm, and she's rinsing out her mouth when the phone pings with a reply. She catches a glimpse of his name before the screen stutters and fades to black. "Oh well," she sighs. "I was headed home anyway."

-o-

She raps the door with the back of her knuckles and tucks her hand back into the pocket of her jeans, bouncing on the balls of her feet nervously. She's not sure if he'll be at home, but after her text message, she's almost entirely certain he would come home even if he weren't. Her fingers toy with the key in her pocket. She could let herself in, but she wants to surprise him like this; wants to see the look on his face when she tells him; wants to see his familiar grin spread wide across his face– maybe our baby will have your smile _,_ she thinks.

Low muttering issue from behind the door, and her stomach starts flip-flopping again. The door clicks open and a familiar scruffy face peers out. The scowl on Lance's face fades quickly into one of surprise and he pulls the door open a little wider, mouth slightly agape, a familiar fierce longing in his eyes.

He can't believe his eyes; she never came home early from a mission, _never,_ and there was no way this mission could have ended so quickly– he'd checked with Coulson the day after she'd left and he said to expect radio silence for the next few months at the least. It'd taken a huge amount of restraint on his part not to rail at the director for taking his wife away again, for putting her in danger again– surely she deserved some rest after a three-month op for God's sake?! He'd settled for throwing the phone against the wall instead, where it bounced off with a very unsatisfying thud.

"Lance," she says, tears pricking at her eyes and laughter bubbling up her throat. Her fingers brush his arm, pulling him in; she can't wait to tell him, she's been picturing his reaction from the moment she found out, and _oh God she's missed him._

He gives her a quick onceover; no bruises or bandages or wounds, thank God, but then why was she here? He frowns, scrutinising her face a little more carefully, and she looked pale, and tired, and there were purple bruises under her eyes from lack of sleep. He would wonder if she's ill but her smile was so radiant it made her face glow, and her eyes were shining with tears and filled with so much joy that he eliminates illness straight off the bat– no one could be this happy to be sick. The last time he'd seen her this happy was when he'd asked her to marry him, properly, instead of while fighting off a bunch of assassins– although she'd laughed and glowed like this too.

Her smile is contagious and he feels his lips curl up to mirror hers; his hands reach up of their own accord to cup her cheek, her neck; to pull her into his arms, to tease out the reason behind her brilliant smile, to tell her _Sweetheart I've missed you so much, and I'm not letting you out of my sight for the next few months and I'll tie you up if I have to–_ but then a faint tinkling laughter sounds from behind him in the apartment, and with a sudden rush of panic, he remembers where he is and what he's doing and forces his arms to his sides.

For a moment she thinks he's going to embrace her like he always does and her body relaxes in anticipation, but then he's stepping outside instead into the apartment, pulling the door just to, and her laughter catches in her throat. She tips her head in confusion, a question on her lips, uneasiness knotting in her gut. "Is someone in there?" she tries to ask as lightheartedly as possible, ignoring her growing apprehension and resisting the urge to press a hand to her abdomen. He wouldn't notice her movement, she's sure, but she doesn't want to draw attention to it just yet.

"No!" he says panickedly, "No." His hand drifts toward the doorknob and she catches the motion out of the corner of her eye; she feels her neck prickling and her body growing cold– _Something's wrong._ Lance kicks himself mentally and drops his hand, _she's a spy, did you think she wouldn't notice,_ and nonchalantly corrects, "Yes, I've a friend over." It's a blatant lie and they both know it. She bites her lip, wondering whether to call him on it, but he looks distracted, and she wonders if it's fair to him to automatically assume that it's a woman, even if she _knows_ it is, she just knows _,_ and she has a mental tug-of-war with herself over his fidelity.

His mind races as he tries to think of a way to get Bobbi away as quickly as possible; he can't afford for her to be here right now, not with _her_ less than ten feet away separated only by a slab of wood. His Bobbi was more than capable of taking care of herself, and he knows she can take the woman out without blinking an eye, but he would rather not risk it. He still hadn't managed to find out who the woman was working with– if they turned out to be dangerous, he would rather Bobbi was far, _far_ away from them.

So with some difficulty, he schools his features into one of indifference and annoyance. "Bobbi," he says coolly, and he sees the precise moment when the light in her eyes goes out, replaced by confusion and hurt. His gut twists, _I'm sorry Bob, I'll make it up to you when this is over, I promise._

Some of his regret must reflect in his eyes, because she frowns and steps forward, hand outstretched in concern. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly and jerks away, and she flinches, arms falling limply to her sides. "What's wrong?" she asks softly, almost sadly, and it's his turn to frown, because this is the part she normally lashes out and demands that he stop being a child and they start on their predictable downward trajectory. But then he hears _her_ calling his name, and the anxiety and desperate desire to get Bobbi far away return in full measure.

"Nothing," he bites out harshly, dropping his gaze to a random spot behind her shoulder, trying to listen and discern the woman's movements in the apartment. He looks up and meets her eyes briefly, and the pain in her eyes feels like a knife to the chest. He steels himself and summons as much indifference as he can, "You're supposed to still be on mission, Coulson said it was a long one– why are you here?"

 _I'm pregnant_. Two words, maybe it would bring Lance back to her, erase this cold distant stranger. "I–" But she looks up to his face and sees his shuttered, impatient expression, and her voice catches in her throat. This isn't how she wants to tell him; she doesn't want him to stop being angry at her simply because she was carrying his child, and she doesn't think she can bear it if she tells him and he remains coolly indifferent. Something in her breaks at the thought of him rejecting her– _them_. She'd imagined all his reactions, or thought she did– she never thought to account for the possibility that he might not care. Maybe the argument they'd last had was the last straw, maybe he'd finally had enough, maybe he'd finally stopped caring, finally stopped lov– "Nothing," she echoes back instead, trying not to let her thoughts run away with her. She bites her lip, eyes brimming with tears despite herself. "I should go," she whispers, turning away.

A warm hand circles her upper arm and turns her around, tugging her to a hair's breadth away from him. "Bob– don't cry," he says desperately, quietly, and this is the Lance she knows, and loves, and _what's wrong, why won't you tell me, and I'm having our baby,_ but his hand remains on her arm, doesn't come up to brush away her tears like he normally would. She knows it's entirely irrational and there's probably nothing going on, but it feels like someone's twisted her heart into knots and she makes to slip her arm away. But then he's searching her eyes, sweet and warm and worried and _hers,_ and she has to bite her lip to stop it trembling, to stop herself from crying out in relief that maybe he was still hers, after all, and _oh, she's missed him so much._ "Tell me," he pleads quietly, "Tell me, sweetheart."

Her resolve breaks at the familiar endearment and she reaches round to her back pocket to slowly pull out a slim white stick, handing it to him with a tentative smile playing on the corners of her lips. He takes it from her, frowning down on it bewilderedly, not knowing what it was or what it meant or why it would bring her back from a mission. And then he hears footsteps just behind the door and his expression changes to one of panic; his pulse rises exponentially until it's thudding like a drum in his chest, and he has to get her away, _now,_ before _she_ came out and saw Bobbi– he doesn't know if she has men lying in wait to take people out, he can't risk it, not with her, he can't–

Bobbi watches his expression change from concern to confusion to consternation, and the air rushes out of her lungs in a whoosh as if he'd sucker punched her in the stomach. He looks up at her in a panic, not really seeing her, and shoves the stick back in her hands. "I can't do this Bob, not right now, I can't," he says, glancing away behind him as if to get away from her, to escape, and her chest constricts and stomach knots and _oh God she's going to throw up._ She chokes back a sob, searching his face, hand reaching out to touch him. She wants to ask, no, _demand_ why, _why, isn't this what we wanted– what_ you _wanted?_ , but he backs away, fist tight on the doorknob, and a moment later the door clicks open and a red-taloned hand snakes up his chest.

The blood drains from her face, _she was right, she was right, she was right, and this must be a nightmare–_ she tries to search his eyes but he's turned his face away from her, toward the redhead. "Who's this?" The strange woman drawls, scratching down his chest with long nails. Bobbi watches in disbelief as Lance covers the woman's hand with his and presses a kiss to the back of her delicately manicured hand. Her own hands, nails bitten to the quick, twitch at her sides. "No one, darling, just an old friend."

Bobbi's hand comes up to cover her mouth, the other pressed tightly over her stomach against a violent cramp, and she tries not to gasp or cry or scream or vomit as the woman comes into view. She catches a glimpse of a creamy shoulder and the blood red of a scrap of lace as the woman carelessly shrugs on a sheer robe that hides nothing and tries to push past Lance. When he refuses to budge and instead moves to block the doorway properly, she tiptoes and peers over his shoulder, biting the meat of his shoulder and growling in what she clearly thought passed for seduction. Bobbi laughs inwardly scathingly at the slip of a thing, trying to mask and tamp the escalating hurt and hysteria in her stomach– _he doesn't like petite redheads, princess, nice try–_ but then Lance turns to whisper something in the little minx's ear, turning enough to make sure she can't read his lips, and she gets a better view of the woman. Her red hair was mussed, beestung lips swollen, and bruises were blossoming in a familiar trail down her neck to her breasts, as if– As if…

Her face crumples and her blood turns cold and all the breath escapes her body in a soundless exhale. She's drained and empty and about to collapse and just wants to leave, but her feet are rooted and frozen to the spot– it was their apartment, their _home,_ he'd brought another woman to their _home_ – it would explain why he hadn't left any messages other than that first one asking her not to die out there– _it would have been better for you if I'd died out there, wouldn't it_ , she thinks bitterly, and she doesn't realise she's said that last part aloud until he grits, "Not now, Bobbi."

"Who _is_ she?" the redhead whines, pouting and rubbing her perky breasts all up and down his arm. He's not shirking away from her touch, she notes numbly, staring blankly at him; _this must be a nightmare._

"No one, darling," he says hastily, throwing a careless glance at her while turning to usher his new fuck buddy back into the apartment. "Just one of those people trying to trap me into one of those things again."

Her stomach clenches and chest constricts with anger, and all of a sudden it's hard to breathe. She digs her nails into the flesh of his arm to yank him around, and her slap rings down the empty hallway. " _How dare you,_ " she snarls, lip trembling violently and tears spilling down her cheeks. Palm burning, she makes to turn away, and out of the corner of her eye she sees his lips begin to form her name and his hand jerk as if to pull her back, to explain, to tell her it was all just a misunderstanding, _please Lance, tell me it's a mistake, it's a joke_ – then he lets his hand fall and turns and shuts the door, never sparing her a second glance.

-o-

When her phone sputters back to life later, she inhales shakily as she opens a message from him. _Please, tell me it's a mistake._ Then she realises it's the message she hadn't gotten to read earlier. She chuckles bitterly, scrubbing her face of tears, and tosses the burner in the trash.

To: Lance 'Jackass' Hunter  
From: Bobbi Morse  
I'm coming home, I'm pregnant.

To: Bobbi Morse  
From: Lance 'Jackass' Hunter  
Whose is it?

* * *

 **A/n:  
** Based on the tumblr prompt: things you said too loudly.

Strictly speaking, the 'loud' part here refers to the slap.

This chapter took ages to write, and to be honest, I'm still not satisfied with it.

But I still hope it hurts. -evil face- Let me know what you think! :)


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